England makes it 2-1 very late
in the match, but it doesn't matter,
on a day like this, who wins
- not for me. To the Dutch
and the English, yes. But not
to me, on a day when an old
furry friend died. Their grave
in the deep blue night matters,
not the celebrating English,
the Dutch in tears after the final
whistle. They possess time,
no matter the score. In this game
of life they are winners both,
for now, even when the white
shirts celebrate and the orange
shirts mourn. They have time,
time still running towards finite
future and an unknown end.
10.07.2024
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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